Passengers
by ropesburg
Summary: To get to number 77 on the blacklist, they must journey by train. It's a long ride over vast landscapes and stubborn nature. What's at the end of it? Well... guns, mostly. Oneshot. AU. Lizzington.
A/N: this is what happens when i read anything by Rosa Liksom.

AU where they are sent on a blacklist case and are forced to take the train there.

* * *

A never-ending tug of war. Lizzie, Elizabeth, Liz, was not a brooding woman. She gently corralled Aram into unsavory activities, expertly took the edge off of Ressler's anger when he was in a state. She got along well with Cooper. So how come she dug her heels in when he was around? Whenever he spoke with her there was a thinly veiled annoyance boiling underneath. Her tone was curt, and his tips were rarely met with any gratefulness.

It was as if he'd pushed over her favorite vase, and she didn't have it in her to forgive him.

He'd chosen her, although it would have been more favorable to pick someone else. Perhaps someone who didn't greet him with a frown. They were meant to be his lifeguards, but she might let him burn.

Yet she kept coming back, out of some sense of duty. She reappeared, kept on barging in through the foyer or hallway, the world's most disillusioned messenger with a government badge. She was thoroughly unimpressed with whatever château he'd holed himself up in. When sparing brief glances at the paintings on the wall she could, at most, raise the edge of an eyebrow in recognition of a piece.

A Monet had captured her attention once - an image of a deep set garden, lilies, and dark water like accidents. Despite that his stay in the Wilkinson residence didn't last more than a few days, she always took the time when she was there to regard it for a moment. When he left the house he'd bargained with the owner, and now the painting was his. He'd bought it, without regards to her or him or anything, except the brush strokes and the view. It had meant something to her, so he held on to it. Not that it cost him any money, it was accepted as payment for services rendered. It didn't cost him. It didn't cost him any money, but it had been expensive. It was one of those things he avoided looking at as he passed it in his warehouse.

The painting was intertwined with her, with her glaring eyes and reluctance to follow him.

Hers.

* * *

"Lizzie."

Many things happened at once.

Her name, like that, wrenched out of the man she'd come for. Bloody, tied to a chair.

She shot the man next to him, his body falling backwards, crumbling. She'd shot the guard before entering the room, a simple response.

"Red," she replied, the gun still in her hand.

* * *

The train shivered in the curve, taking it too fast for comfort. The entire cart leaned into it. Her coffee cup slid across the table top and she barely managed to catch it before it fell off the edge.

Red was deeply engrossed in his newspaper. From above the Cyrillic letters in print form, she could see the top of his hat.

The other passengers were busy making themselves comfortable. A girl a bit younger than herself had brought a meager-looking pillow and had curled it up and stuffed it under her chin. The girl was sleeping soundly, perhaps lulled into rest by the repetitive tugs.

Elizabeth worked on her coffee, taking small sips when it was possible. Inside the thin paper cup, the brown liquid sloshed around, jumping at the edges with every crook in the tracks..

* * *

He'd spent many winters in the east, the despicable cold chased away by glass upon glass of see-through alcohol. The women lived their lives separate from the men. The men worked long hours, long days, drinking at the end of them merely because the bottle fit in their hand. The women lived around them. The music were tangos, played on breathless accordions with cracks in their sides. Air slunk out of it like dollars from the government, depleted by negligent hands.

* * *

Sasja sat beside him, staring out the small window with glazed over eyes.

"Look at that," he croaked, his inland Russian sounding like a rusty tractor starting up. His greasy hair nodded towards Liz's shape in the whirling snow. "Beautiful. But too much trouble."

He shook his head. "Have you met my sister? She's a good woman, cooks well, better than my mother did."

Red shook his head. "I haven't had the pleasure, I'm afraid."

Sasja flung his head back, emptied out the small glass, grimacing. "You need a good woman, a proper woman."

"Don't we all?"

The Russian poured another drink, frowning at Red's full glass.

The glass was emptied.

Pleased, Sasja refilled it. "I don't like drinking alone."

Another round was cleared. "Now, about these rifles," Sasja said, clearing his throat.

* * *

The warehouse was a block away, the big metal door stretching out beside a run-down drycleaner.

"Good for security," Sasja muttered, nodding at the brute on the other side of the street. Reddington hummed, gulping in the night air in a futile effort to clear his head. It smelled of coffee inside, and high above there was a single row of industrial lights.

As Elizabeth stepped inside, Sasja held a hand up. "She stays outside. I don't trust her."

She frowned, unsure of what was being said, why she wasn't let in.

"I trust her," Reddington remarked. "Where I go, she goes."

The Russian puffed hard on his cigarette, still frowning. He then tossed it on the concrete floor, grinding out the faint glow with the heel of his worn boot. "Alright. Only because I trust _you_." He pointed a cold-crooked finger at Reddington.

The heart of the operation was at the far back, a locked room. The lights clicked on hesitantly, needing several attempts to get it right. After his guests had stepped inside, Sasja locked the door behind them. Shelves stretched around the walls, along with a setup in the middle, proudly displaying the goods. Liz went one way and Red the other, while their host stayed at the door, smiling proudly, showing off his decadent teeth.

Red found an automated rifle, military grade, night scope. He stopped to admire it. "Very nice."

Sasja joined him. "When I got my hands on these, it was a very good day."

There was a loud _clack_ from the other side of the room. Lizzie had straightened out a grisly looking firearm, holding it in her hand, weighing it. She frowned and inspected it more closely, letting her fingers run over the steel.

"I thought she was just your girlfriend," Sasja breathed, a new-found respect in his eyes.

"Oh God no," Reddington rebuked him, smiling. "Lizzie handles my security."

At the sound of her name Elizabeth looked up, putting the gun back. "What?" she asked, her face sullen.

"Nothing," Red assured her. He continued in Russian; "I've seen her hit a moving target from a car, all kinds of impossible shots."

Both men regarded her for a moment, watching as she made her way along the rifles.

"She was a sniper in the military," Red concluded.

Sasja turned to Reddington. "Have you ever...?"

Reddington laughed.

Elizabeth looked up. He met her eyes for a brief moment, then turned back to his acquaintance. "She is the only woman who has put me in the hospital."

Sasja laughed as well, amused at the prospect. "I wonder how she managed that."

"A story for another time, my friend. Shall we do some business?"

* * *

They dragged themselves up the brooding stairs, the sound of their steps swallowed up by the thick, dark red carpet. She opened the door in the dark. The light in the hallway was bust, its wires sticking out of the wall.

Red put his hat on the desk.

From behind the curtains the street lamps shone, drawing yellow figures on their ceiling. They got ready for bed without turning the lights on. It was dark in the room.

Elizabeth took her clothes with her into the bathroom. Waterpipes groaning, sounds of her brushing her teeth.

Reddington sat heavily on his bed, untying the neat shoelaces. Too-tight knots.

There was a flash of light before she turned the bathroom lights off and closed the door. She put her little bag on her nightstand, then crawled into bed.

Outside, a car passed. The sound echoed past, dissipating into the hum of the night.

It took all of his focus, but he managed to untie the knot on the left foot. He trampled it off, positioning it beside the bed. Shifting leg, he started on the other shoe.

"What did you talk about?" Elizabeth asked. Her face was barely discernable in the corner.

"Exchanged pleasantries, mostly." With a groan he took the other shoe off. After having put it beside the previous one, he sat up straighter, the cheap mattress springs creaking. "I told him about my new, quite excellent, bodyguard."

She snorted. "Your new excellent bodyguard from the FBI."

Reddington shrugged. "FBI, GRU, it's the same thing to him." He got up, went to the bathroom, managing to step in everyone of the puddles of water that was created from Elizabeth's vigorous face-washing routine. He lopped his socks off, left them on the bathroom floor. Despite being thoroughly drunk, he managed to make his way to the bed. He stepped out of his trousers, heaved off his shirt, then he could finally sink down into the bed.

Sleep.

* * *

On the way again, this time considerably more quiet, more together. Like welded metal, they'd slipped into place through tiredness and repetition.

"When this is over, I'll never set foot on a train again," Elizabeth bit out, having placed her small bag on the assigned shelf.

The train wobbled into motion, a rhythmical assault on the nerves in their bodies. The beds, one on each side of the coupe, swayed along with it.

Soon thereafter an attendant showed up. He was meant to simply check their tickets but the man, friendly-looking and in his forties, sporting an impressive mustache, became engrossed in a rapid back and forth banter with Red. Both were smiling by the time he left.

"He says the borscht is simply mouthwatering this time of year."

"Great," Elizabeth said weakly. If she could have one wish, it would be spent on pancakes.


End file.
